The hospital walls reeked of antiseptic and silent desperation. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed, flickering with the same uncertainty that clouded Aria Rivera's every thought.
"Ms. Rivera," the nurse said gently, "your brother's condition is deteriorating. If we don't perform the surgery within the next seventy-two hours…"
"I know," Aria interrupted, her voice strained. "I just need more time."
The nurse nodded, her expression laced with pity.
But Aria didn't want pity.
She needed money—$110,000, to be exact. Money she didn't have.
Not with her days spent working shifts at the scrapyard and her nights buried in freelance coding gigs.
She pressed her hand to the glass separating her from her baby brother, Julian. Tubes snaked from his small arms, his lips pale, his chest rising slowly beneath a thin blanket. He had just turned seven. Since their parents perished in a fire, she had raised him alone, learning to code from stolen library books and salvaged laptops while working odd jobs to keep them fed.
"I won't let you die," she whispered to him. "I don't care what I have to do."
Later that night, in her cramped apartment, Aria sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop balanced on her knees. Fingers flying over keys, her screen displayed the culmination of weeks of digital subterfuge:
"Operation: Identity Switch—RUNNING."
Her target: Lena Monroe, a wealthy heiress who had vanished overseas months ago. Her disappearance was mysterious, and her online presence had gone dormant—just enough to make a believable return plausible.
Aria had already hacked into two government databases to plant identification records. She'd edited public images, scoured her voice to mimic Lena's accent, and even enlisted the help of a shady plastic surgeon willing to subtly alter her appearance—for a hefty future cut.
Now came the final move.
She scrolled through a confidential email she'd found buried on a dark client list:
High-paying marriage contract. Confidential. Billionaire status. One-year term.
Must be discreet. Fertility is optional. Emotional attachment discouraged.
She clicked 'Apply' and attached the forged Lena Monroe passport, her polished resume, and a video showcasing her accent and aristocratic poise.
Ten minutes later, the reply came:
Damien Roth is willing to meet you.
Be at Roth Industries. 9 a.m. sharp.
No delays. No excuses.
Her heart slammed in her chest. Damien Roth. The name alone was a thunderclap in the business world. Billionaire. CEO of Roth Industries. Reclusive. Infamous. Untouchable.
The man was a myth with steel in his reputation—and he wanted her?
A fake wife for a ruthless CEO. One year. Enough money to pay for Julian's surgery 'ten times over'.
She closed the laptop and looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror on her wall.
"You've hacked cartels, rerouted federal money trails, faked entire identities… You can lie to a billionaire."
But as her hand trembled slightly, she wondered if she really could.
The Next Morning...
The Roth Industries tower loomed over Manhattan like a crown of power. Aria stepped out of the cab, heart pounding. She wore a thrifted designer dress, heels a size too small, and confidence as fragile as spun glass.
She'd rehearsed everything—her poise, her refined tone, her fabricated past. She was Lena Monroe: daughter of a real estate mogul, polyglot, and recently returned socialite.
Security let her in without a hitch. Her forged credentials were flawless.
She was escorted to the 73rd floor—the sanctum of Damien Roth himself.
The office was stark, all minimalist luxury and panoramic views. Damien stood with his back to her, staring out the window, arms behind him in military precision.
"Ms. Monroe," he said, without turning. "You're late."
"By ninety seconds," she replied. "Traffic was a beast."
"I don't tolerate excuses," he said as he turned.
And there he was.
Sharp jawline. Steel-gray eyes. A presence that filled the room like a storm about to break.
He studied her—not with interest, but with 'analysis.' Every inch of her, every blink, every breath was being assessed.
"Thank you for seeing me," Aria said smoothly.
"I don't waste time. Do you understand the terms?"
"I marry you. I follow your lead. I stay quiet. No falling in love," she recited, like a business agreement.
He arched a brow. "Confident. Most women I've interviewed tremble."
"I'm not most women."
"Blood type?"
"AB."
"Favorite wine?"
"Château Margaux 2004."
His brow twitched. "That vintage was discontinued in 2003."
Her stomach dropped.
"I meant the '05 reserve," she said coolly. "My father stocked the wrong case once. It stuck."
A pause. Measured. Suspicious.
Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a contract.
"One year. Attend events. Smile on cue. No drama. In exchange, I wire $10 million into your account."
She hesitated, fingers tingling as she reached for the pen.
"Why me?" she asked.
"You're not what you say you are. But you're exactly what I need."
With a deep breath, Aria signed the name she'd stolen:
Lena Monroe!
Damien's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile.
"Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Roth."